


Songbird

by falindis



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bittersweet, Captivity, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Lay of Leithian, Offscreen character death, Pet Names, Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Tumblr Prompt, We all know how it ends, song magic, unlikely partnership
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26394172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falindis/pseuds/falindis
Summary: "It will end. Eventually.”“When?”“When master decides it.” Thuringwethil’s smile was somehow sad. “But if I were to choose, it would be sooner rather than later. It is so sad to see such a beautiful bird caged.”During his captivity in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Finrod forms an unlikely partnership with Thuringwethil, Sauron's right hand. The visits of the herald quickly become the only spark of light amidst the hopeless dark.
Relationships: Finrod Felagund | Findaráto/Thuringwethil
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	Songbird

**Author's Note:**

> Started out from a crackship prompt with Thuringwethil/Finrod, turned into a 1700-word-fic. Nereb & Dungalef are inspired by tumblr. I got unexpectedly emotional writing this, so hope that you will enjoy this too!

It was cold here, in the depths below Tol-in-Gaurhoth, cold and dark.

If Finrod lifted his hand and held it in front of his face, he could barely make out the outlines of his fingers. Whether he closed his eyes or kept them open made no difference. The only source of light that he could make out was the occasional glint of malicious eyes in the darkness – followed by a dreadful screaming.

And there was nothing that Finrod could do.

He was separated from his companions with thick iron bars – so close that he could almost have touched, if the bars were further away from each other. Everyone of them had been given their own individual cell, each small and bleak with nothing but the bare floor underneath.

Even though Finrod knew the depth of Sauron’s torment, _not_ being tormented by him was somehow even worse. At least then he would have known that it would soon end. Now he was oblivious. Nothing was constant but the waiting and the reek of death. Death, that would eventually come to them all, unless they revealed who they truly were.

Finrod wished that his men weren’t so loyal. At least then they would not have to suffer.

So, when the door to the cell corridor finally opened, letting in a thin trickle of light, he thought that his prayers might have been answered at last.

“Beren”, Finrod whispered, rising from the floor to lean against the bars on his right. “Someone’s coming.”

“At last”, Beren replied. Finrod barely recognized his voice anymore – it was hoarse and creaky from disuse, like a door that had remained closed for too long. “Our torment ends.”

Finrod blinked his eyes as he got adjusted to the sudden brightness. It was still dark, but he could now make out the cells around them. Besides from Beren, he saw no movement. He slowly came to realize that the two of them were the only ones left.

“Come forth”, Finrod’s voice shook as he opened his mouth to speak. “What are you waiting for!”

The response to his words was a light chuckle. Strangely enough, Finrod did not recognize this voice. It was too soft and silent to be Sauron – gentle, even. Not cruel.

“My dear”, the voice spoke – a woman – “so eager to die?”

Finrod’s eyebrows arched, and he scrambled up to stand. “Who are you?”

The woman did not respond. She simply came closer, her movements eerily quiet. From the neighboring cell, Finrod could hear Beren’s breathless whisper:

_“A ghost…”_

The woman laughed again, now close enough for Finrod to inspect. Although it was still dark to see her features properly, Finrod could make out that she was neither elf nor human. Yet this was no monster of Sauron’s either. She was too pure, too beautiful, with hair the color of freshly-fallen snow and eyes as dark as the midnight sky.

It was only when her rosy lips curved into a smile that Finrod noticed the small things – how her teeth were just _a little_ too sharp to make him comfortable, how her skin was a shade too white to be natural.

And then, of course, there were the wings. They were almost indistinguishable from her dark, translucent dress, but they were there – leathery and sharp-tipped, like a bat’s.

 _“What_ are you?” Finrod whispered.

“Thuringwethil”, the woman replied, her voice like music. Finrod felt dazed. “And you are?”

“F—”

“Don’t answer her!” Beren cried out.

Felagund was dragged back as if from a trance. He shook his head and focused his gaze again. Witchcraft, surely, stripping his mind vulnerable for all to see.

This might not have been Sauron, but she was easily as devious as him.

“Dungalef”, Finrod corrected. “That is my name.”

“Dungalef”, Thuringwethil replied, clearly pronouncing each syllable, “what a sweet little pet you are.”

In his cell, Beren shook. “Leave us, you demon!”

Thuringwethil frowned. _“I_ am no demon. And the two of you should be glad to have my attention, instead of Master’s. He so loves playing with pretty things, and you…” Thuringwethil’s thin fingers reached out to cup Finrod’s jaw in their tender hold, “are the prettiest of them all.”

Finrod blinked his eyes, speechless. He felt Thuringwethil’s fingers continue their path onto his cheeks, stroking gently.

“Now, precious”, Thuringwethil cooed, lifting her fingers from Finrod’s face. They were wet. “Tears? Why?”

Finrod had not even realized that he was crying.

“Because…” he clenched his teeth together, “because I want this to end.”

“Oh. It will end. Eventually.”

“When?”

“When master decides it.” Thuringwethil’s smile was somehow sad. “But if I were to choose, it would be sooner rather than later. It is so sad to see such a beautiful bird caged.”

Thuringwethil leaned away. “Goodbye, my little bird.”

And with those words she turned around and left, leaving Beren and Finrod into the punishing darkness.

*

Some time later, Thuringwethil came back.

This time she caught Finrod unawares, having sung to himself in the darkness. Finrod’s voice was cracked and frail, yet Thuringwethil listened to it with wonder in her dark eyes, tilting her head sideways like a curious animal. Her ears were longer than the ears of the Eldar, and when she listened attentively, they twitched.

Then again, she left, and it was dark once more. Until she came back once again, her pointed ears perked in excitement. She was carrying with her a jar of glass. Empty.

“What is that for?” Finrod asked.

“For you, my little songbird”, Thuringwethil replied. “For your song. So I can capture it here and listen to it, even after you are gone.”

For some reason, Finrod was touched by the gesture. So he agreed to sing to her, and with each note he heard his voice grow louder, regaining some of its former strength. It was still too weak to enchant, but once his song was over, Finrod could see that the jar glowed a feint light. And within that light there were images, memories. The scented breeze of the fields of Valinor, carrying with the song of a thousand birds. The golden light of Laurelin, caught in Amarië’s hair. A crackling hearth in the depths of Nargothrond, where his bed was soft and the covers warm.

“Thank you”, Thuringwethil said, closing the lid. “I will cherish this.”

She flashed a smile before she left.

Finrod smiled too. Then he fell to his knees and wept.

*

Finrod did not know why Thuringwethil kept on visiting him. Two visits turned to four, four to eight, until Finrod finally lost count.

She had the habit of visiting when Beren was not awake. For some reason Finrod thought it a good thing – Beren had been suspicious toward her, and would surely not appreciate her frequent visits.

He would call her a demon again, telling her to leave. Her ears would fall flat from sadness, and Finrod would be sad, too. She did not deserve to be called like that.

Besides, Finrod did not want her to leave.

He had grown to appreciate this… companionship of theirs, somehow. They were not friends. Yet they were not enemies, either.

It was strange, and Finrod did not know how to describe it. The only thing he knew was that she did not hurt him. No. Quite the opposite. For some reason her visits came to be pleasant, comforting. They distracted him from the pain. From the inevitable.

They made him forget the cold surface of stone beneath his feet. The stench of death and decay that made him sick in the stomach. The taste of blood and hunger on his tongue, and the sound of the screams that echoed from behind the walls.

What Finrod knew now was the sweet scent of her hair, fresh like a brisk winter morning. The softness of her pale hands against his cheeks. The salty taste of her skin as she pressed her fingers upon his lips, and the kindness in her voice as she called him her little bird.

She made him forget that he was about to die.

And one morning, the door to the cells opened again, but it wasn’t her.

*

On her way to the dungeons, Thuringwethil was stopped by an orc.

“Halt”, he spoke, “what’s yer business ‘ere, lady?”

“I am here to visit a prisoner”, Thuringwethil replied. This was the first time she had been questioned from her visits here. She wondered why that had changed.

“What prisoner?”

“The blond Elda. Dungalef, he is called.” Then she added; “Master’s orders.” A lie.

The orc snorted and spat. “Yer too late, then. Master already took care of ‘im. Or ‘is wolves, truth be told.”

“Oh”, Thuringwethil said. Her voice sounded surprisingly hollow. Her chest felt tight and her eyes stung, they way they always did on a cold winter day. But it was still far from winter.

“What?” the orc asked. “‘e someone to you?”

Thuringwethil blinked, lifting her chin and fixing her posture.

“No”, she said. “No-one.”

Then she fled, flying straight to her tower.

*

Back in her chambers, Thuringwethil took out the jar that had stored Finrod’s song.

As she held it in the light it appeared empty. But beneath her fingers it vibrated, yearning to be released.

She opened the lid. Like a gust of wind, the song burst out, painting the room in vivid images and colors. Trees, birds, light, playing on her walls – touches and scents that awoke a distant yearning.

With wide eyes she watched the play of light and shadow, widening her arms and embracing it all. The longer she listened, the quieter the song ran out, with the images slowly dulling in color.

Thuringwethil knew she could have closed the lid, to store the song inside and keep it to herself forever, but she hated to see such a beautiful thing captured.

So, she let it go. The song faded out, the notes fluttering to her window in the shape of a dozen of golden butterflies, the beat of their wings the glissando of harpstrings, until at last, they too, were gone.

In the silence of her tower, Thuringwethil smiled.

Her songbird was finally free.


End file.
